Shackles
by Rainy D
Summary: He's been avoiding the taverns lately. Partly out of fear that he'll see his mysterious admirer. Mostly out of fear that he won't. (2 of 6) (slash)
1. Chapter One : Tryst

Shackles  
  
By RD  
  
Chapter One : Tryst  
  
1  
  
The tavern air is thick with smoke and the scent of drink clutches at him as soon as he enters.  
  
But Jack Sparrow merely smiles, because he knows he is home.  
  
He slides into a chair near the back of the room, leaning back again the wall. It doesn't take long before he catches someone's eye. A man, a few tables away from him. He is lounged out over his chair, much like Jack, and seems hardly to notice the girls flanking his sides. He stares at Jack, unblinking, the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. He flicks his hand lazily and a serving girl appears at his side. Jack grins curiously at the way the lasses act around him. They are quite besotted with him, though Jack wonders whether that is at all to do with the glint of gold in their pockets.  
  
The man's fingers curl around the back of the maid's neck and he pulls her head down and whispers something into her ear, smiling. Her eyes close a little, and she starts playing with her hair, trying to lock eyes with him. But he hardly looks at her. He slips her a few coins and sends her on her way.  
  
A few moments later she is back, now at Jack's table, setting a glass of rum in his hands. "A gift from the kind sir," she says, blushing a little. She scampers away, her tray banging against her leg in her haste. Jack looks after her, then back to the stranger, who has his own tankard raised in a toast. Jack nods, now grinning fully, then downs the glass slowly, sensually, closing his eyes and tipping his head just so. The man leans forward, now completely ignoring the girls around him, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.  
  
Jack makes sure he drains every drop, then sets his glass on the table and makes to leave, deliberately weaving past the man's table. Suddenly, a hand darts out and grabs his wrist. He turns slowly. Up close, the man is not at all unhandsome, perhaps a few years older than himself. His hair is pulled back under his hat, though it some seems to have broken free and hangs loosely in front of his ring adorned ears. His hands too have a jewelled glint, and though his clothes look worn and dusty, Jack knows they are rich.  
  
"Your name, lad, I must know." Jack's breathing hitches faintly at the sound of his voice. It is deep and throaty and has more than a trace of the sea about it, and Jack begins to understand why the girls look at him the way they do.  
  
Jack swallows, though his grin doesn't falter and his own voice rings out clear enough. "Jack. Jack Sparrow."  
  
"Jack..." The man rolls the name somewhat curiously. "I'll be seeing ye again then, Jack."  
  
And Jack finds all he can do is nod.  
  
2  
  
The water laps gently against Jack's ankles. The hem of his coat drags in and out with the tide, wet and heavy. He stares out towards the dark horizon, where the sea merges with the sky. He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand, a little put out to see it is almost empty.  
  
One last glance out to the horizon. Nothing. Just like the last few days. Still nothing.  
  
Jack sighs, then wipes down his feet and pulls on his boots. They're sticky and the sand scratches at him as he walks down the street, away from the docks, but he is getting too drunk to care. It is quiet and the place is empty, but this is how he wants it. He's been avoiding the taverns lately. Partly out of fear that he'll see his mysterious admirer.  
  
Mostly out of fear that he won't.  
  
Jack has to squint up to see the signs above the shops, and while he can't make out the words, upon seeing a roughly carved bottle on one of them, he stumbles in the door.  
  
"Jack, my good man!" The vendor booms heartily. Jack resists the urge to clutch his aching head. "What can I do for you on this fine eve?"  
  
Jack throws down the contents of his pockets onto the counter.  
  
"I'm afraid I can't give you much for this," he says with some distain, holding up a piece of lint, "Ah, but this'll do fine." He sweeps the few copper coins into his meaty palm, then scans the bottles shelved behind him. "Here we are!" He pulls down a rather dusty looking vial. "Jacob Gander's Classic Brandy. Good, strong stuff."  
  
Jack reaches out for the bottle, not really caring what's in it, as long as it will have him smashed out of his mind by morning, when suddenly, a hand snakes around his waist and he can feel warm, salty breath against his neck.  
  
"Now now, Jack, I think ye can do better than that."  
  
Jack's eyes widen, though the strong grip on his hips prevent him from turning around. He recognises that voice at once, that saline rasp, the way his name is played with.  
  
"We'll be havin' two bottles of your finest vintage red, an' nothin' less." One of the hands leaves him to place three gold coins on the table. The vendor stares at the coins for a second, before saying hurriedly, "Yes sir! Right away sir," and bustling around with the bottles.  
  
"You!" Jack says quietly.  
  
"Aye....." He can feel the smile against his neck, and shivers unwillingly. "Did I not say we'd be meetin' again, Jack?"  
  
".....Who are you?" His voice is nothing above a whisper.  
  
"That'd be tellin'." The man takes the bottles proffered to him, hooking his fingers around the necks so that he doesn't have to let go of Jack. "Now where is it you'd like to go?"  
  
Jack sobers quickly. His head is still swirling, but his voice is feverish. "There's an inn. In the port, near the docks."  
  
"Take me there."  
  
Jack is all too willing to oblige.  
  
3  
  
Jack is in a daze. A hot, happy daze.  
  
He has realised he is being seduced, and decides he likes it. He has always believed if you can get something for nothing, take it, and having a perfect stranger lavish alcohol on him is rather a nice feeling.  
  
He spends the short walk taking in every detail of the man's face. His hair is down tonight, and it flows about wildly, trying to break free from the green bandana that ties it in, an auburn frame to a dark face. His chin is stubbled, much like Jack's own, and an earring hangs down on each side of his face (Jack thinks these look suspiciously like fangs). There is a scar by his right eye, though it has healed cleanly and would only be noticeable to someone scrutinising him so intently as Jack is doing. Jack is enthralled by his eyes. They are no colour he has ever seen before; a deep, pallid amber, where none of the moonlight shines.  
  
Jack is taken by surprise as the inn looms into view. The stranger holds the door open for him like a perfect gentleman. The inn is lavish, and Jack has never stayed here before, only wandered around the courtyard, marvelling at its opulence. The man leaves him for a while to wonder at it again, then returns a moment later, dangling a rusty key.  
  
He leads Jack up the stairs, never breaking his gaze. The long fingers still clutch his hip tightly. Jack tries not to trip on the uneven stairs.  
  
The man fumbles a little with the key at the door. This surprises Jack, as the man is so elegant and strong, it doesn't seem as if he could ever make petty mistakes with anything. But the click of the lock sounds, after what seems like an age, the door is kicked open and Jack is ushered inside with a quivering yet forceful hand.  
  
Jack immediately makes for the four poster bed and falls down onto it, enveloped by the deep quilt, sinking into the soft mattress. He kicks off his boots, and watches the man pour two tall glasses of red wine. In the dim light of the room, it looks thick and blood-like.  
  
"Who are you?" he asks again, unable to keep the complete curiosity out of his voice. Silence, as the man brings the glasses over and passes him one. Jack takes a deep sip, the wine crisp against his already dry throat.  
  
"Your devoted aficionado, good sir," he says, with more than a hint of mockery. He removes his hat and bandana, and Jack notices his auburn hair already has wisps of grey, though he is far from old. Jack thinks it gives him an air of one who has seen a whole other world of things than himself.  
  
"No, no, your name. Please," the man's hands tremble visibly when Jack says this. He lowers his voice. "Please tell me."  
  
"...Hector Barbossa. Your humble servant, lad," There again is that trace of sarcasm, and Jack knows he should feel slighted. But he just grins.  
  
Until his smile is kissed roughly off his face.  
  
Jack wakes up cold and alone the next morning.  
  
With a dirty, fang-like earring laying on in the indent in the pillow beside him. 


	2. Chapter Two : Exodus

Chapter Two : Exodus  
  
A/N – Endless thanks to Rowena for all her help.  
  
1  
  
Everyone greets Jack Sparrow when he walks down the street. The shop vendors wave food that he can't afford in his direction; on a good day they might pity him and give him a loaf or a steak or an apple. The sailors make him jealous with their latest tales of high seas adventures, so he makes up his own, more daring and glamorous than any they could imagine, and scoffs in their faces when they cannot match his stories of princesses and pirates and untold riches. The whores flutter their fans at him and giggle coyly when he winks and tips his hat.  
  
Everyone greets Jack.  
  
But none of them know him. Not really.  
  
They don't know Jack barely has the means to clothe and feed himself. They don't know that his deepest desire is to be rid of this town and to sail on the open waters, free. They don't know where he got the ivy fang he keeps strung in his hair. And they don't know that he waits every night on the shores for another man who doesn't know him.  
  
Jack sighs deeply. It's been three weeks since that night at the inn, and no sign of his elusive lover. No letter, nothing.  
  
He walks slowly down the streets, his head down, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. Just out of the corner of his eye, he can see the off-white blur of the fang. He had stood outside the jeweller's for near an hour, but couldn't really see the attraction of getting a bloody great hole drilled into his ear, so he'd tied a piece of string to the ring at the top of the fang and tied it to one of his braids. He can always see it, but never really look at it. A constant reminder.  
  
Jack often walks with his eyes down these days. He often bumps into people. At least, it's not uncommon. So when he walks straight into someone in the street, he mumbles an apology and walks around them.  
  
"And where d'ye think you're goin', lad?"  
  
Jack stops. The first thing he feels is anger. Questions race through his mind: why did you leave me? Where did you go? Why do I need you so much? Then he feels helpless. All he wants to do is kiss the man behind him (he hasn't turned around yet, he can't) and let himself be whisked away into blissful oblivion. Only when he finally spins around, grinding the heels of his boots into the gravel, he can only grin widely.  
  
"Barbossa." He says, trying to hide the awkward, boyish tint in his voice. He finds he cannot call him by his first name; it feels too familiar, which is ridiculous considering their previous 'bedroom activities'. Jack cocks his head to one side, trying to look arrogant, trying to instil even a little trepidation in his seemingly fearless seducer. But his voice betrays him as he utters a subjugated, "You were gone long."  
  
Barbossa laughs openly. Jack laughs with him, though it is hollow and he only does it to make him seem less of a fool. "Indeed. Well, for your pains, I've brought ye a gift." Jack looks on curiously as he pulls something out of his sash. It shimmers iridescently in the Caribbean sunlight.  
  
A beautiful, Indian dagger.  
  
He slips it into Jack's palms. "This is for you." And his expression betrays that he's beginning to take Jack seriously.  
  
2  
  
Jack feels like a child again. So easily pleased, an earnest smile from Barbossa sends him into fits of happiness, sometimes for hours. Yet he feels belittled. He knows full well Barbossa has him like a dog to its master, rewarding his obedience with kisses and attention.  
  
Jack doesn't like this. He has always felt the need to assert his authority and hasn't felt himself for weeks. Since he met Barbossa. But...in a way...well, he loves the attention he's being paid, from people around him too. And he feels a little ashamed at this.  
  
He decides to confront him on something that's been playing in his mind for some time now.  
  
They are in a busy pub. As usual, they are the centre of many people's attention, mostly because Barbossa is so open in his affections for Jack, often playing with his hair or leaning in so close that Jack can feel his warm breath on his neck, and always keeping an arm draped around his shoulders. Jack feels daring and glares at those who are staring at them in disbelief or disgust. He knows none of them will do anything about it though. Barbossa is taller and more threatening than all of them combined, in his view.  
  
His defiance gives him some kind of bravery; enough so to say quietly, "You're a pirate, aren't you?"  
  
Barbossa does not look at him, but says off-hand, "That bothers you lad?"  
  
"No."  
  
Jack had had friends, when he was younger, and they'd all promised one day to go out to sea and make a life for themselves. They all slipped away one night, on a merchant ship to New Orleans to find a pirate crew to join. Jack knew that one of them was dead, and he didn't know nor care to know what befell the rest. But his longing for the open seas still lingered, and being with Barbossa, especially now, sparked a hope in him that soon he's leave the land that in all his twenty two years he still felt so unaccustomed to.  
  
"Take me with you next time?" Jack asks bluntly.  
  
But Barbossa's interest is elsewhere now, watching a young couple at a table a little away from theirs, watching how her face leans into his, how her hair falls across her face, how her eyes dance with light when she laughs. Jack studies her too, with jealously, and presses himself a touch closer to his companion. "It's a terrible dangerous thing, lad. Wouldn't want that sweet head of your gettin' all banged up now, would we?"  
  
Jack knows he's not just a pretty face, but all his former nerve has escaped him suddenly. He tugs on Barbossa's heavily clothed arm. "Come on. I want to go now."  
  
The man shoots him a look of contempt, but it lasts only a second before his features relax into his usual, nonchalant expression. On their way out, Barbossa locks eyes with the girl for a moment longer than Jack would have liked.  
  
3  
  
Barbossa leaves more often in the months that follow, and his absences begin to lengthen. Jack grows used to him leaving, always without warning, though he worries more now that he knows why Barbossa travels.  
  
His lover always leaves Jack with money and gold to trade, and brings ever more extravagant gifts on his return, but Jack still feels abandoned by him. His life is more rich and plentiful than ever, but he still knows an emptiness when he is left alone in his decadent surroundings, clothed in opulence, with a pristine sword hanging down past his waist. His misses his old life, poor though it was.  
  
Jack finds himself hovering outside the pubs these recent evenings. Not a drop of rum has passed his lips for weeks, as Barbossa insists on him drinking fine French wines when they dine. Jack misses the taste, but still doesn't enter the pub for some unfounded fear that somehow Barbossa will find out and be disappointed with him. So he has to content himself with watching the endless droves going in and out and making Jack feel terribly thirsty.  
  
Coming down the cobblestones now, Jack sees a marine looking around nervously. Jacks stares at him curiously. He has never quite understood the British navy, though he envies them for cruising the sea he yearns for so much. How out of place the boy looks here; the way his emerald eyes dart about reveals his age and inexperience, though he's trying not to show it by standing straight and tall (and he is tall, Jack notes, and strong too, he'd bet). Jack looks down at himself, completely the opposite to this lad, and compares his glossy silks to the dull red of the marine's uniform; observes the way the boy holds himself, so different to Jack's own swaying stagger. But Jack realises something, almost at once.  
  
They are the same, because they are both alone.  
  
And it is that fact that makes Jack get up and follow him into the pub.  
  
The smell and sheer atmosphere inside swells recognition inside Jack, and he has to stop a moment to take it in. In his reminiscence, he finds he has lost his marine, and the pub is so crowded and dim, he can barely distinguish anyone, so he pushes his way into a relatively empty corner and gazes into the mass.  
  
"James! Over here!" A voice ringing out over the rest turns Jack's head, and there is his boy, laughing as he is pulled into a chair by two others. Two of his friends.  
  
And it is Jack who suddenly feels so horribly outcast; an obvious speck of gold in this comfortable russet sea. 


End file.
